Scarves, Laundry, and Spilled Coffee
by Wofl
Summary: rated G through NC17. Fluff, angst, slight gore. Drabble series.
1. Scarves

A series of BDS drabbles I wrote for a friend.

* * *

"What's that?" Connor looks up from his mug of coffee just in time to catch a small box that Murphy lobs at him from the doorway as he steps into their dingy, one roomed, and now freezing apartment. He shakes it, turning it from one side to another, but doesn't yet actually open the box.

"A Christmas gift from the landlady." Murphy responds, stripping his gloves off his hands and crossing the room to dig in the cupboard in hopes of finding a clean cup. "She's nice enough to give us a gift, but too stingy to turn on the heat."

Connor snorts, but strips off the paper and opens the gift. From where Murphy stands at the counter, he has his back to Connor. He does not see as his brother reaches into the box and pulls out two long strips of brightly colored woven material spun into bold, intricate patterns.

When his brother begins to laugh, Murphy's attention is drawn and he turns to behold the hand-knitted-with-love monstrosities that he has, by some grave mistake, allowed to enter their apartment.

"Well isn't that pretty?" Connor declares in a high falsetto, waving the scarves in the air in front of him. They are the epitome of vile; one is a horrifying combination of olive green and orange and the other containing an overwhelming amount of aqua. "You'll look like a regular celebrity wearin' these!"

Connor prances across the room and drapes the scarves around Murphy's neck with a flourish. The ends fall to the floor, and Murphy scowls, ripping the ugly things off his neck and throwing them back at Connor rather violently.

"Don't forget one of them is yours, ya fag." Murphy snarls.

"You didn't care about that last night" Connor grins, all teeth as he picks up the scarves and drapes them around his own neck and bats his eyelashes.

"Dick." Murphy says, halfheartedly, but doesn't resist when his brother closes the distance between them and silences him with a kiss. Nor does he protest a few moments later when Connor suggests they put the scarf to better use.


	2. Laundry

Pt. 2 of drabble series. Think of it as a fluff sandwich.

* * *

He just has to keep scrubbing, that's all.

Connor stands at the sink, a rough bristled scrub-brush in his hand, a bottle of soap in the other. Below him in a sink with murky, soapy water, there is a stained shirt, dripping, the stain no nearer to going away then it had been three cycles through the washer, 5 different cleaners, and 20 minutes with a scrub brush ago.

Connor's not crying because that would mean there was something wrong and there's nothing wrong at all. Everything is normal, everything is good. Murphy just got a stain on his shirt, that's all. Connor has to clean it up.

He has to scrub and he has to get the stain out because Murphy needs his shirt and he can't cry because there's nothing wrong and it's not blood on the shirt, it's just a stain.

Because Murphy is not dead in the bar down the street and there isn't a bullet through his chest from an angry mobster who learned about where the famed Saints liked to spend their time off.

Murphy just spilled some beer, that's right.

It doesn't really matter that he can't quite remember what happened after Murphy spilled his beer. Connor doesn't really remember how he's managed to get himself back to the apartment, or why he has Murphy's shirt. So it must be that Murphy asked him to get the stain out for him. Murphy isn't good at any of that domestic shit anyways. Never has been.

But Connor can't see, for some reason. Everything's beginning to go fuzzy and the shirt is getting harder to see and it's getting hard to locate the stain and his hands hurt from all the scrubbing. The shirt is probably falling apart by this point, he thinks, under all the abuse. Everything is falling apart.

But no. Because everything is okay. There's just a stain on this shirt and he needs to get it out.

He just has to keep scrubbing, that's all.


	3. Spilled Coffee

Part 3.

* * *

"I said I didn't mean to!" Connor snipes, exasperated, but Murphy isn't listening. Murphy is dripping, and there is a burn on his leg from where the coffee scalded his skin and he has an "I'm gonna count to ten and then slit your throat" kind of looks.

In Connor's hand rests the empty mug. It's gripping and Connor's hand is equally scalded and behind him is the pair of shoes he's tripped over, left carelessly by one of them, who can tell which.

Murphy stands up in one swift motion and has his brother in a painful headlock the next. But Connor elbows his twin in the gut and pulls away from Murphy's grasp and in the next thirty seconds their apartment turns into a rough-and-tumble brawling room.

The two roll around in the floor, exchanging punches and taking turns pinning each other down and neither of them can really remember when it turned from an actually fight into something less violent and into something more animalistic; when blows were exchanged with kisses.

And Murphy doesn't really remember when he went from wanting to punch his brother for being so careless and when he wanted to hear Connor begging and writing beneath him. But somehow he is on top of his brother and half their clothes have gone somewhere and Connor is doing just that.

They manage to make it to the bed, and by the time they do, the rest of their clothes are gone. Connor is all mouth and tongue, moving like sin itself across his chest, drifting down across the hollow of his hip to take Murphy's erection into his mouth.

Murphy is all hands, his fingers finding all of Connor's erogenous spots and roaming like they own they terrain they're exploring. Connor is his to mold and control. He can make him squirm, he can make him moan or beg or buck all with a simple command from his hands in the right spots.

And it is not long before his hands leave Connor to pull at a cold handle of the bedside drawer and he is pulling out a glass bottle and Connor is groaning his approval around a mouthful of cock. But as he opens the cap, the darker twin surreptitiously gives the cover a twist to intentionally loosen it.

When he turns the vial upside down to pour some out onto his palm, the top falls off and the oil splooshes from the bottle and spills in a sticky, messy puddle all over Connor's chest.

That's enough to distract Connor from what he's doing and he releases Murphy with a wet pop and utters an incoherent noise of protest.

"What's tha fuck?" He manages at last, lifting his head to peer down at his torso.

"Sorry, Conn," Murphy says with the biggest shit-eating grin Connor has ever seen. "I didn't mean to."


End file.
